


The Inebriation Situation

by trill_gutterbug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, M/M, This is Completely Pointless Porn!, total pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan grew suddenly more hot all over. “I don’t know that I have been lying in wait. Sleeping, yes.”</p><p>“Bah,” said Ragnar, and climbed onto his knees, pushing his hands into Athelstan’s hair. “Even your sleep is just a biding of time until I come home.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inebriation Situation

**Author's Note:**

> As a writing exercise, I decided to see how fast I could slam out a PWP of *highly* questionable quality. Turns out… about 20 minutes. My most sincere apologies for posting this really awful excuse for porn. I was drunk. 
> 
> (That's no excuse.)
> 
> (Btw, this is set sometime earlyish season one, before Ragnar does the thing and becomes the other thing. Spoiler-free, yo, if season one can still be spoiled...)
> 
> (Also, I'm finally on tumblr under trillgutterbug! Come say hi!)

Athelstan jerked awake when the door rebounded on its hinges, crashing against the wall. Ragnar stood silhouetted, a faintly swaying figure, against the dark street. 

“Mother of God,” Athelstan hissed, one hand pressed to the pounding in his chest. 

Ragnar laughed, an easy rolling chuckle that held the timbre of a barrel of mead. “Scare you?” His teeth flashed in the low firelight. 

Athelstan nodded. He pushed the furs down around his feet; although the fire had ebbed nearly to coals, the nights were getting warmer. His armpits and the small of his back swam in sweat. “Where is Rollo?” he asked.

Ragnar kicked shut the door. “Lost him.” He reached back to grab his tunic’s collar and pull it clumsily over his head. “Lost him to the temptation of nubile flesh and willing limbs,” he told the inside of his shirt, arms bent and trapped by it. 

Athelstan bit the inside of his cheek, ducking to hide a smile. “We shall mourn his loss,” he murmured, and nearly crossed himself. A twinge of chagrin stopped him at the last second. 

Ragnar threw off his shirt and swayed toward the bed, yanking at his belt. His feet fumbled over one another, tripped him up. Athelstan lunged and caught his shoulder before he could bang his knees on the floor. 

“Careful,” he said, but Ragnar was already crawling onto the bed, grinning and shoving his breeches down. His braid was loose and coiled over one shoulder. New beads glinted in his beard. 

“And then I remembered,” he went on, undeterred, “that I had my own nubile flesh and willing limbs lying in wait for me and no need of my brother’s blessing to enjoy them.” He lifted Athelstan’s wrist and kissed the inside, eyes bright, enticing. 

“Well,” said Athelstan, growing suddenly more hot all over, “I don’t know that I have been lying in wait. Sleeping, yes.”

“Bah,” said Ragnar, and climbed onto his knees, pushing his hands into Athelstan’s hair. “Even your sleep is just a biding of time until I come home.”

“We’re not home,” Athelstan said, only to be contrary, but Ragnar leaned forward and kissed him. His mouth was scorching, fiery with spirits. Spicy from the expensive brews Jarl Haraldson served at his private gatherings. 

It was still a new enough sensation, the wet smear of Ragnar’s mouth on his, that Athelstan’s hands shook when he set them against Ragnar’s bare sides, pressing the muscle there. 

Ragnar flinched, because he was ticklish, and pulled the hair at the back of Athelstan’s head. It drew his throat into an arch and Ragnar bent to kiss him there, biting beneath Athelstan’s ear. 

“I will fuck you all the more thoroughly for it,” he growled, taking a mouthful of skin and worrying it like a dog. He spoke between his teeth, vibrating the tender flesh all the way down Athelstan’s spine. “Because there is only one of me and that means double the work.”

Athelstan groaned, helpless, all his bones turning to porridge. He thought of Lagertha, home with the children and sleeping alone tonight, and wished for her firm touch and guiding hand. She would know better than he what to do with Ragnar’s drunken appetites. The two of them had never done this alone before. 

“Alright,” he said, sliding his hands down Ragnar’s sides, around his hips. “If you think that is best, my lord.”

Ragnar laughed, took another mouthful of Athelstan’s throat and sucked at it, chewing. It hurt, but the explosion of gooseflesh down Athelstan’s arms and chest quickened him further; his prick throbbed in his underclothes. 

Keeping hold of Ragnar’s hips, he eased back, shivering, into the furs. Ragnar’s rough hands fumbled at his breeches, pulling them down. Athelstan’s prick leapt free, over-eager. Ragnar cupped his palm over the length of it, rubbed it against Athelstan’s quivering belly, catching at the delicious notch under the head. 

“Ah,” Athelstan gasped, stung and shocked anew every time his prick was touched; it was an area yet unfamiliar with the concept. 

“You like that?” Ragnar murmured, sucking along Athelstan’s jaw, back to his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer and slipped his tongue against Athelstan’s, catching the back of his neck in one hand to hold him open and still, eating at him. His bare cock pressed against Athelstan’s thigh, grinding heavily. 

“Yes,” gasped Athelstan when Ragnar’s mouth drifted away, touching at his cheek and the point of his chin. “Yes, I like it.”

Ragnar reached down and pushed open Athelstan’s thighs, clambered between them with all the grace of a newborn calf. He hitched one knee up over his hip, slid his hand along the underside until it cupped Athelstan’s ass, fingers teasing along the crack. 

“I want to get in you,” he mumbled. His kisses were insistent, sloppy; Athelstan wrapped one hand in Ragnar’s braid to leash him, to feed at his mouth more properly. 

“Yes, do that,” he whispered, shaking and growing more shameless by the second. He was getting drunk from the taste of Ragnar’s tongue and the rhythmic, senseless motion of the hips between his legs. 

Spit was the only thing they had to slick the way, mostly because Ragnar refused to move when Athelstan tried to rise and find something better. But that was fine. They had a lot of it, and Athelstan had learned early on how to relax and open up and enjoy the stretching press. 

And Ragnar went slow when he was reminded. He held up Athelstan’s leg in the crook of his elbow, working inside methodically, sweating. He bowed his head against Athelstan’s heaving chest, drew shallow breaths.

“Careful,” Athelstan gasped, when one push went too deep too fast. 

Ragnar bit him; he was reduced to a suckling child when drunk and in rut, communicating with tongue and teeth what he wouldn’t with words. 

Athelstan wound one arm around Ragnar’s broad back and arched into him, eyes shut tight. Even if the door were to suddenly burst open and Rollo came staggering in demanding the return of his bed, Athelstan didn’t think he would be able to muster the will to push Ragnar away; this pleasure was too voracious and consuming. 

Ragnar ground against him for a protracted moment, seating himself fully. Athelstan shuddered, his ass clenching and his prick surging against his stomach. Ragnar caught one nipple between his teeth, massaged it with his tongue. 

“You’re ready,” he mumbled, more command than query, but Athelstan nodded.

“Please--” he said, but Ragnar was already thrusting, knocking the words out of him.

It jolted him up the bed, the force of Ragnar’s fucking. It stole the air from his lungs and made his legs shake; he was glad of the way Ragnar was holding his thighs apart, because he couldn’t have gathered to strength to do it himself.

Cries were forced from his belly, hitching sobs that tore at his throat. Ragnar kissed him silent, nursed at his tongue and bit his lower lip, sucked it raw and swollen. Just when Athelstan thought he would faint for lack of air and the unrestrained pounding Ragnar was giving him, there was a reprieve; Ragnar shifted back onto his knees, dragging Athelstan’s hips into his lap. The change of angle twinged inside, sparking strange places that made Athelstan’s belly clench and his prick drool. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, a filthy word that Lagertha had once rapped Gyda’s knuckles for using. It burst out of him, unexpected and heartfelt.

Ragnar snorted, lifting his brows. His throat shone with sweat, working through an open-mouthed swallow. 

“Does that feel good to you?” he murmured, and pressed deep inside again. 

Athelstan sobbed without meaning to, twisting handfuls of fur and blanket between his fingers. His eyes stung with tears. 

Ragnar ground slowly into him, grinning. “You open for me like a maiden,” he said. “You hunger for me.”

“Yes,” Athelstan said. He slid his leg higher up Ragnar’s back, drawing him closer. “Yes, I hunger for you.”

“I make you crazy and full of lust,” Ragnar said, and took Athelstan’s cock in his hand. 

“Yes, yes.” Athelstan convulsed with the squeeze of Ragnar’s hand around him, panting.

“You love me,” Ragnar whispered. 

“I love you,” Athelstan agreed, beyond thought. “I love you, I love you, yes.”

Ragnar stroked him up and down, rolling the foreskin with his thumb. “Do I make your cock feel good?”

Athelstan groaned, the surge of Ragnar’s prick in his ass pulsing all the way through him, driving the words from his throat. “You make me feel good everywhere,” he said, teeth chattering. 

“Say it.” Ragnar thrust into him slowly, teasing. “Say I make your cock feel good.”

Athelstan whimpered, resistant, but the dirty words were driven out of him by the insistent pushing of Ragnar’s prick. “You-- you make my cock feel good.” And then he couldn’t stop, the drag of Ragnar’s palm over the head of his prick too exquisite to be borne. “You make my cock feel so good, you fill me up and make me want to spend-- You are so fucking beautiful and perfect, Ragnar Lothbrok--”

Ragnar snarled at that, half laughing, and bent down over him again, damming up the words in Athelstan’s mouth with his own. His hand tightened, twisted on Athelstan’s prick, and the thrusting pressure of him in Athelstan’s ass grew heavier, more ferocious.

And then Athelstan felt it, the deep hot trickle of seed inside him, and Ragnar sucked his tongue hard enough to hurt and rubbed at the tip of his prick and it was done. 

Athelstan came between them, making hurt and helpless noises that Ragnar ate up and swallowed, and his legs shook so hard that Ragnar lost his hold and they collapsed in a tangle of useless, overheated limbs and slid sideways off the bed together.


End file.
